


remake

by bonebo



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: New!Watch, aka Everything Is Better
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-29
Updated: 2016-08-29
Packaged: 2018-08-11 19:52:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7905478
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/bonebo/pseuds/bonebo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>tumblr user vickjawn mentioned something about gabriel getting changed back into a human with the help of new overwatch</p><p>what if</p>
            </blockquote>





	remake

Not for the first time--hopefully for the last--Gabriel Reyes wakes up to the blinding glare of fluorescent lights over his head, in a room made of white.

His first instinct is to look around--and he’s not greeted with much. White walls and white floor, an uncomfortable bed with crisp white sheets, silver IV pole and clear lines running into his arm...it’s all familiar, from the SEP and Blackwatch missions gone awry. Old, tired, boring. Nothing new.

What is new--what gives him pause, makes him sit up straighter in bed--is how he feels; or, more accurately, how he _doesn’t._

There is no fire burning in his veins, no pain gnawing at his every cell, tearing him apart as fast as he rebuilds. His lungs don’t ache with the air they inhale, his breath comes smooth and easy; he flexes and moves his arm, watches the muscles ripple under his scarred skin, and realizes that his joints don’t grind with brittle bone anymore. He pushes back the starched sheets to look at himself, bunches up the thin gown around his chest so no flesh is hidden--he looks _whole_ , skin that before would flake and waste away into ash now smooth and solid, if crossed and gouged with pale scarring. 

He blinks dumbly at his body--his _new_ body, or is it his _old_ body, returned to him? He doesn’t know, doesn’t care, because all that matters is that it’s _his_ , now. He hesitates, then reaches up to touch his face, fingers shaking as they ghost across flesh that wasn’t there before; surprised by the spongy give of muscle and fat where before there had been nothing but hard bone and sharp teeth.

“...Gabriel?”

He snaps his head over at the voice, nearly jumping out of his skin--Jack gives him a small, patient smile, blue eyes soft as they, too, take in Gabriel’s new--old?--appearance. 

“...you look good,” he quietly decrees, and Gabriel wonders if he’s imagining the fondness in his voice. Has his hearing been tampered with, as well? “How do you feel?”

He pauses before he speaks--runs his tongue over his lips and is startled by the moisture, the feel of saliva in his mouth. His voice still holds on to some of the rasp he’d had before, but is clearer, less choked, less like knives lodged in his throat when he speaks. “....different. I feel different.”

Jack manages a chuckle, and reaches down to find one of Gabriel’s hands; Gabriel’s startled again by the fact that Jack’s hands feel _cooler_ than his. One of Jack’s thumbs runs lightly over the back of Gabriel’s hand, and he knows he’s not imagining the affection this time as Jack hums, “Fair enough.”

__++__

For a while, different is all he can feel. 

While the loss of his constant pain is a blessing, it’s easy enough to forget--and after having to adjust to a body not entirely human, it takes Gabriel a while to fit himself back into the restraints of a purely physical form. More than once he finds himself walking toward a destination and then flat on his back on the floor, staring up at the ceiling and wondering what went wrong; forgetting that without his wraith abilities, solid walls are very much an obstacle again. He sneaks into Jack’s quarters for treatment with the worst of his injuries--his broken noses and black eyes, his bruises--because he can’t bear the thought of facing Angela and telling her _“No, I wasn’t attacked. I just took this body you redesigned for me and ran it straight into a wall.”_

It’s humiliating.

But even that’s not as bad as the times that everyone else notices his struggle--when McCree quietly sits down next to him, looks at him like some kind of frightened animal, asks in his syrupy drawl, “You alright, boss? You got that look on your face…”

And Gabriel would ask him _“What look?”_ , but he already knows. The Look is the face he makes that everyone assumes means he’s stuck in the grip of the past again, trying to claw himself free from memories of torture and years of darkness--but in reality it’s just him trying to figure out why his body is still so solid and not moving, even though he’s been trying to slip into wraith form for the past five minutes.

Instead he gives McCree a vacant smile, tries to hide his embarrassment as he mutters, “Yeah, kid, I’m fine. Normal now, right?”

__++__

The loss of his wraith mode isn’t what ends up bothering him the most.

That particular honor is reserved for the first five times he goes for his guns in the practice fields and remembers that they’re _not there_ , and that he can’t make them appear anymore, no matter how hard he tries. It’s enough to make him panic the first time, because his shotguns are the only thing he has to keep him safe against the hordes that want him dead again; and he claws at the empty space around his thighs and his breath goes shallow and it’s only Jack’s strong arms around his struggling frame, Jack’s voice soft in his ear-- _”Gabe, Gabe, come back to me, Gabe, it’s alright”_ \--that keeps him from combusting on the spot.

He lets Jack lead him out of the shooting range and hates the quiver the wracks his body, how heavily he leans upon Jack’s strong frame for support; he keeps his eyes on the ground as he walks, and wonders if this was the best decision for him, after all.

__++__

Eating is harder than he remembers--but infinitely more rewarding.

The muscles of his jaw have to get used to working again, but when they do Gabriel is astounded by the flavors and textures that he’d forgotten: the crisp sweetness of fresh apple and cooked meat’s richness, ice cream turning his tongue numb and the way kiwifruit makes his lips tingle. To celebrate his change McCree makes him _carne asada_ with rice fluffy enough to stick to his teeth and it’s all Gabriel can do to keep from crying at the taste that reminds him of before, that reminds him of _home_. 

He drinks everything in sight--water, beer, soda--and Angela asks him if he’s dehydrated, worry in her voice. He can’t bring himself to tell her that he’d forgotten the rush of liquid down his parched throat, what having his thirst quenched felt like.

He goes to bed that night beside Jack’s solid warmth and he dreams; for the first time in decades Gabriel _dreams_ , and it’s all light and color and images of peace, and he sleeps solidly until Jack stirs beside him, finally rousing him from the best rest he can remember ever having. He opens his bloodshot eyes to Jack’s frown, a question that he can’t answer-- _”Gabe, why are you crying?”_

He can’t explain the tears--no more than he can explain the smile that stretches across his face at Jack’s concern. So he pulls Jack back down by an arm around his chest, nestles close and listens to Jack’s steady heartbeat, runs his fingertips over scars he hasn’t seen before; he realizes that now he can actually _feel_ them, the ridges and dips of scar tissue against Jack’s smooth skin, the warmth of his blood humming just below his flesh. His fingertips learn the difference between old scars and new, mapping out Jack’s body again with slow, deliberate touches, and his lips relearn the taste of Jack’s pulse beneath them, remember the salt of his skin.

Lost guns and fractured dignity can all be regained, Gabriel decides, smiling against the scruff of Jack’s jaw. He can’t imagine a better decision than this.


End file.
